Bored (they're not real Tattoos, come-on, Dean!)
by KilianaFelagund
Summary: Waiting for a hunt, stuck in a motel, Dean's bored (which is always bad) and Sam's Bored too (which is rare, and surprisingly might be worse) What could possibly go wrong? how about a couple (Ya, right, Learn how to count Sam!) of fake tattoos? Set after the end of Season 2 (I think). Just good fun.


**So this started as what was supposed to be a simple one page laugh, I got a little carried away… like a LOT carried away! But anyway, please enjoy, and if you hate it, don't hate me, hate my muse! Review away and make my day!**

**~Kiliana**

**Disclaimer: I do NOT own Supernatural or any of the characters.**

**Warnings: Tag for language (Hey it's Dean, there is always a little bit of bad language involved)**

* * *

"Sam, what the hell is this?"

"Um, it's a tattoo, Dean."

"Ya right! This piece of paper – you actually expect me to believe that." Dean's voice matched his expression; somewhere between disgusted, amused, and completely confused.

"Ya, it is a stick-on-tattoo." Sam retorted dropping the fake tat on the counter.

The motel they were in – the typical half garbage dump, half terribly outdated, and completely charming in a strange Dean-like way – had a surprisingly nice kitchenette and even more surprisingly an edible looking mess of food cooked by the elder brother. Sam wasn't certain if he was going to give it a try yet. Dean was a decent cook, he had fine-honed skills after feeding the two of them for years while dad was away. But, well, he hadn't actually cooked since, and they hadn't exactly gone to the store first. But still it looked like it once had been food, and probably wouldn't taste too terrible, although he absolutely was not going to ask what the blue strings in it were – he was sure Dean wouldn't poison him on purpose – pretty sure – kinda maybe sure...

"Sam, I know you're new to the world and all that, but tattoos are a little more complicated than this." Dean snarked still eyeing the slip of plastic covered paper distrustfully.

"Dean, it's not a permanent tattoo, it's a stick-on-tattoo, washes off." Sam explained shoving his hands into his pocket and leaning up against the counter.

"What's the point then?" Dean turned back to the – um, food? – on the counter.

"The point is that I saw a bunch of stick on tattoos that looked like tough guy tats, and I smiled and bought them because I figured I might as well have fun with my big brother while we are stuck here in the crappy motel with, very yummy looking food, to eat." Sam explained in an almost whiney voice.

"Hey, this, 'very yummy looking food,' it's gross Sam." Dean exclaimed tossing the spoon haphazardly at the sink. "I can't believe you think it even looks like food!"

"Oh thank God! Are you really going to make me eat it? It looks terrible!" the relief on Sam's face was comical until Dean thwacked him on the head. "Yes Sam, I'm going to force feed you if I must. We are stuck in this crappy motel because of you, remember."

Yes of course Sam remembered. He was the one who didn't want to leave town before they heard back from Bobby and knew where they were supposed to meet him. Dean had reluctantly agreed and now Sam was beginning to doubt that it was a good idea. Bored Dean was a dangerous Dean, it was the food at the moment, who knew what else he would attempt to destroy before the day was out.

Sam made a face and changed the topic. "So, tats. Can we put on fake tattoos tonight?"

"Exactly how old are you Sammy?" Dean asked incredulously.

"Four years younger than you…" Sam retorted rolling his eyes, "And it's Sam."

"Whatever."

Dinner was a complete success… … …ok so not really, but still, it didn't make them sick, so, _Dean _thought it was a success. Sammy had his doubts about his health at the moment…

TV was NOT a success. Dean had loudly exclaimed as much when it wouldn't turn on, although he used much more colorful words until Sam almost blushed despite the lack of audience.

Cards was a bust - Dean absolutely was not going to play "go-fish or "slap Jack" and Sam simply refused to lose another poker game to him.

The bar was out of the picture, Sam would absolutely NOT let Dean out of the motel before Bobby called, because the second he did they were SO gone!

In the end, it was about seven in the evening when they boys found themselves in the bathroom crowded around the small sink with a large pile of stick-on-tattoos.

"Dammit Sam, I thought you said they were many tattoos. This is a flower. You have got a seriously screwed up idea of manliness if you think these are at all manly. Are you sure you actually have –"

"Shut-up already. I got the memo!" Sam snapped back. "Ok so there are flowers mixed in with the manly sculls and football helmets." Suddenly he grinned and dug around in the pile for a moment. "I'll wear a flowery one if you do." Sam dared holding up a tattoo of a bouquet of roses.

Dean screwed up his face in disgust but proceeded to select a picture of a lilac. He looked at it like it might bite him for a moment before dropping it. "I can't believe I'm in here!"

"I'll let you put the bouquet on me anywhere you like," Sam started before stuttering to a stop at the gleeful look on dean's face. "Anywhere within reason, Dean!" Dean's face promptly fell again. "I'll let you put it on me, If I can put the Lilac on you."

"How the Hell do you know it is a Lilac."

"Its purple Dean, and only Lilacs look like that. Plus I used to get Lilacs all the time when–"

"Wow, forget I asked." Dean retorted reluctantly handing him the Lilac. "This is a terrible idea. I am NOT going to wear fake tattoos hunting, Sam."

"No backing out now, plus they wash-off no problem. Here turn around, this is going on the back of your neck."

"Son of a – Sam. Really!" but Dean turned around and Sam gleefully snatched up the wet towel.

"This is retarded, Sam!" Dean whined after half a second. Sam was slightly surprised it took as long as it did.

"Well, there is a kiss tat if you would rather, lover boy." Sam snarked pealing back the paper and giggling like a little girl at his brother's neck.

"My turn!" Dean snarled spinning around. The bouquet ended up in the middle of Sam's forehead. It's safe to say it didn't get any better, other than the fact that they agreed only one tat on the face was allowed, but the chest and arms… …ya it didn't get any better.

About two hundred tattoos later, boys were veritable walking picture books. Skulls, footballs, flowers, sappy looking zoo animals, peace-signs, and a scary clown just for Sam. The kiss tat on Dean's cheek, however, looked sadly fitting. He even announced as much with great gusto to Sam, who rolled his eyes.

They were actually enjoying themselves. It was beginning to turn into a game – how close could they fit the pictures, how perfectly could they slide off the paper – almost like a jigsaw.

Sam was just laughing as he dug out another picture from the impressively deceivingly large box of tattoos, when Dean's phone went off on the bed.

Their eyes met.

Fear.

"Shit, that better not be–"

"If that's–"

"Hello?.. Uh hi Bobby… …sure give us a half hour and we'll – what?.. …Oh, ya well um fifteen minutes – fine! Ya we're coming, let me just tell Sam… …Hang on, I'm grabbing a note pad… And left at the Church, yes left… Jeez Bobby I'm not friggin five (stop rolling your eyes Sam, you too Bobby I can tell eve, though I – ) ya sure I got it. Yep (Sam grab the bag) Yes sir. Hang tight." Dean dropped the phone like it had burned him and turned to look at his shirtless brother. "Um, Bobby got jumped and he has stuck in a hole and has no idea how long it will be before the giant comes back to finish the job. We have to go right now."

Sam sighed and ran a colorful hand through his hair. "Shit." Dean's eyes went up at Sam's language. "Really Sam, this was your idea remember."

A t-shirt and jacket, the bag, the gun from the counter…

* * *

Thirty minutes later, Dean turned left – yes left – at the old church onto a dirt road. They hadn't either of them said a thing yet. Sam seemed to be petting the puppy on the back of his hand...

Suddenly Dean chuckled under his breath. Sam grinned and clamped a hand over his mouth. They risked a glance at each other – bad idea.

Sam swore he was going to pass out soon, he couldn't draw a breath. Dean was crying he was laughing so hard. They almost hit a tree – and a fence – they did hit the raccoon (Damn thing should have moved Sam, not my fault) – and skidded to a halt in front of a dilapidated but massive house.

"So," Sam gasped when he finally got his laughter under control. "Bobby was hunting a giant? I thought we were going to go join him for a gig?"

"Ya just as soon as he finished here." Dean explained getting out of the car.

"So now we get to kill a giant. Shot gun?"

"No, a sling-shot and pebbles ought to do it." Dean daed-panned.

Sam went ahead and grabbed his shot-gun.

It didn't take long. The giant wasn't exactly trying to be quiet – he went down fast enough though, and the boys focused on Bobby.

"Hey Bobby," Sam said in the most soothing voice he could while Dean quickly checked for injuries.

"Ya boys took yer time." Bobby slurred slightly frowning at him.

"Came as fast as we could, Bobby. Sam, his leg is bleeding pretty good."

"Um, I'd give ya my shirt pall, but…" Sam blushed slightly and backed away. Dean started to giggle again and clapped his mouth shut. Sam looked like he wanted to melt into the ground.

"Wa'da hell's wrong witcha boys?" Bobby slurred again. Dean pulled Bobby's out jacket loose and tied it securely around his leg.

"Let's get him back to the motel."

* * *

Contrary to the wishes of the brothers, the warm car quickly woke Bobby up, they seriously considered turning the air to cold so that he would sleep until they could both get showers. But, between the return of body heat, and constant rounds of suppressed laughter from the front seat, Bobby quickly returned to the land of the mentally alert. Call it his "fatherly sense" or something, they both sounded completely drunk and he was slightly worried.

A few minutes later, he found himself staring in shock at the two of them from his seat on the bed while they squirmed uneasily like a couple of guilty preschoolers. He wasn't sure if it was simply a similarity or an actuality yet.

"Idjits!" he huffed.

Sam opened his mouth, shifted his weight, and closed it again. Dean didn't bother looking up from the floor.

"What the hell is on your face and hands?" Bobby asked, his voice left absolutely no room – at all – like seriously don't you even try it – for excuses.

"Tattoos." Dean mumbled under his breath.

"WHAT! YOU MEAN TO TELL ME THAT–"

"What NO! Fake Tattoos, Bobby." Sam cut through his very loud rant.

"What?!" Bobby was dumbstruck.

"Their stick-on-use-water-to-wash-off-when-you-are-done tattoos." Dean explained.

Bobby blinked completely speechless.

"It was Sam's idea." Dean mumbled.

"Hell you agreed."

"It was stupid of me."

"It was fun!"

"Bitch."

"Jerk, shut-up."

"You started it."

"BOYS!" Bobby apparently had found his voice again. "Did I miss something? Did some witch put a turn-back-into-freaking-children spell on you are something?"

Dean's eyes returned to the floor. It was interesting, if he cocked his head ever so slightly to the side, the way the bed-spread was situated on the floor looked almost like a teddy bear…

"Take off the jackets." Bobby said finally.

"What!" – Sam.

"Hell no!" – Dean.

"Now." – Bobby.

The jackets hit the floor. A second later so did Bobby as he struggled to breathe through his mirth. The brothers looked at each other and shrugged.

"Idjits! I can't believe you! Oh if your Daddy could see you right now…" Bobby's voice trailed off into hitched gasps. "Go get those ridiculous things off your skin."

Dean quickly slunk away, he didn't have to be told twice. The shower was blissful, as was mocking Sam for his taste in ink before the door slammed in his face.

* * *

Five hours and the last fifty-two tattoos later, Sam and Dean rocked back on their heels to survey their handy-work.

"Sam? What the hell did you put in his whiskey?" Dean asked breaking the silence. "I can't believe we haven't woken him yet."

"Um, Halcion, it's like three years past its date, I'm surprised it worked."

"Do I even want to know where you got the sleeping medicine?"

"It's left over from that one time you were hospitalized and couldn't sleep a couple years back…"

"Which "one time" are you talking about?"

"Good point, I don't know, I get them mixed up."

"Oh."

"He looks good."

"Peaceful."

"I have a feeling he would look so peaceful tomorrow."

"Hum, serves him right for laughing at us."

"Dean, you have a wicked mind."

Dean grinned at Sam with his best devil's grin and gathered up the tons of slips of paper and tossed them in the trash before flopping on his bed.

"I particularly like the unicorn in the middle of his forehead – that was very classy Sam." He mumbled to his brother who, thanks to Bobby taking up the second bed, was sleeping right beside him.

"Thanks. Night."

"Umhum. Night."

* * *

Eight hours later the motel practically shook "DEAN, SAM!"

The boys glanced at each other and then at the bathroom door.

"You look marvelous Uncle Bobby!" Dean hollered back.

Maybe he was right, maybe they had been hit by a turn-ya-into-kids-mentally spell, or maybe they were just having fun, but they figured that unless they left right now, they might not be alive the next day to tell the tale. The sounds coming from the bathroom sounded particularly threatening.

The impala roared to life and the culprits hit to road. Somewhere else in the country, in a particular bar, a particular woman named Ellen just about lost it when her phone bleeped with a texted picture.

_Hey, thought you might like this. I figured what the Hell, since we are still being immature… Enjoy. D.W._

Oh, those boys were dead, but she was glad they had done it.

She pushed a button and grinned. Perhaps this particular turn-into-a-friggin-kid-with-no-respect-for-anyone spell was contagious.

_Bobby, I like the ink. Very nice taste. E.H. _She hit send and sealed her doom.

_Get your asses down here before he catches you. E.H. _She replied to the picture.

_ETA. Three hours. Better load your shot-guns. I think the Devil's chasing us. D.W._

Fin.

* * *

**Ya wow, that was not expected… *sheepish grin* …review? I honestly hope you liked it!**


End file.
